Rediscovering photographs I’ve taken is like unearthing secrets that have been in front of my eyes all along. Each time I revisit a photograph, I learn about another piece of myself, my history, and that moment in time. I took these photographs last March, and while I revisit them today, I am filled with melancholy nostalgia as I say goodbye to a piece of my history.
It is an Otis Redding, photo editing, and long drive kind of rainy Saturday here in New Hampshire. This morning I took a drive through the center of town. With soul music storming from my speakers, the rain spattering on my windshield, and a dark French roast cup of coffee in my hand, I pulled into a parking spot. I unbuckled my belt and reclined my seat, staring up at the gaping hole in the bridge that once held so much beauty. I tried to picture it the way I try to picture somebody I’ve lost, the way they once were. With cranes surrounding it, attacking it, like it was some foreign malformation, I tried picturing it on a sunny summer day. It is hard to remember all of the times I climbed on the rocks beneath it. I strain to recall long walks across it, with headphones in, and rebellious dreams of leaving it all behind. I cussed at this bridge. I colorfully cursed at this bridge. I said things I did not mean to this bridge when the center of it rose humbly to let boats pass beneath it. I selfishly thought of how late I would be for work, instead of considering how many people it was truly helping in this town.
This town, of eclectic tastes, graffiti wall art, and seasoned coffee shops. This town, where crazy and corporate merge, where protesters stand, waving their peace signs above their foreheads. This town that I’ve grown up in, that I’ve spent years trying to get away from, that I’ve spent years trying to reconnect with.
This town has always had this bridge.
was is intrinsically a part of this town.
This bridge will be gone soon.